Marcel, the Worst God for the Job

The marble pillars of the great hall shook and cracked again as the sixth seal broke. Marcel le Malchanceux and Chengyun, Dragon of the Mist, quickened their pace toward the Chamber of Seals. Marcel could feel the Halls of the Gods unbinding as they ran.

“You have to stop her!” Chengyun’s voice shook like a river being dammed.

“ME?!” Marcel shot him a look. “What do you expect me to do? You’re a dragon!” His fingers twitched uncontrollably.

“Of a small river! You’re the god of—”

The hall shook again. Marcel stared, wide-eyed, as Chengyun leaked mist—not from panic, but from his essence unravelling.

“She’s at the last seal.” Marcel swallowed. They exchanged a single horrified look, then sprinted the final stretch.

Marcel threw out an arm, stopping Chengyun at the doorway. He leaned in just enough to peek inside with one eye. The white marble floor was stained with lightning scorch, sorcery burns, divine ichor—the blood of the Major Gods. He leaned farther. Her black leather boots stood beside Mjölnir, Thor’s hammer.

He spun, gripping Chengyun by the shoulders. The little dragon god puffed mist in a nervous burst.

“She killed Thor.” Marcel’s voice trembled.

Chengyun’s eyes widened as the truth sank in. “He was the last of the Major Gods.”

They stared.

The hall rumbled again. The seventh seal.

Chengyun shoved Marcel forward. “You have to stop her!”

“HOW?!”

“You’re a god. Use your god powers!”

“I’m the god of Disappointing Dates! What powers?!”

“I’m a river god—of a very small river! Unless she’s standing in it, I can’t do anything!”

The clicking of boot heels echoed down the marble corridor. Both gods froze.

As they turned, the clicks grew louder.

“She heard us,” Chengyun whispered.

Marcel felt the primal energy before he saw her. Loose fabric, hair, and anything not tied down began to lift as she stepped into view.

“Bonjour.”

“您好.”

They blurted together.

The girl emerged. A blade of swirling rage and arcane energy extended from her right hand. Her footsteps left faint scorch marks on the floor. Her eyes burned with hate.

“You’re all that’s left to stop me,” she said, looking them over. “I expected more.”

Marcel’s hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. “Disappointed?”

“Very.” She stepped forward.

“I get that a lot.” Marcel tried to back away, but Chengyun’s hands kept him anchored.

She pulled her arm back, coiling like a snake preparing to strike.

Marcel raised both hands. “WAIT! You don’t have to do this. It’s not what you think!”

Her lips curled. “I know the prophecy. Only when the gods fall will the world be made clean.” Her words rang like iron, yet beneath the strength was a tremor—hate sharpened by grief. Her shoulders stiffened, holding the weight of memory.

“Please don’t.” Marcel’s words tumbled out.

“I will remake it all.”

She swung. The marble wall melted like wax.

Marcel lunged—not bravely, but desperately—reaching for her wrist as the blade hissed toward him.

He did the only thing he could: grabbed her arm just in time. Hate flooded his fingertips, staining them black. The smell of cheap cologne and sour wine thickened around him until it filled his lungs. The glare fractured, shattering the marble columns into shards of neon. Checkerboard tiles slid in like a dream, and a jukebox hummed faintly in the corner.

A sharp smack landed across his face—not from the girl, but from Johnny’s other girlfriend in the 1950s diner.

The girl now wore a black poodle skirt, heels, and a blouse.

“Look, baby, she’s nothing to me.” The words came from Marcel—but the voice belonged to Johnny, the body he now inhabited.

The girl stopped, turning slowly to take in the diner.

Chengyun hovered behind Johnny-Marcel, clutching his arm. “Do something.”

“I’m trying,” Marcel hissed before turning back to the girl. “You don’t understand, baby—”

“Oh, she understands exactly what’s happening,” came the sharp voice of a teenage girl nearby. “And you’re a pig.”

Marcel shook off Johnny’s persona, forcing Johnny’s voice from his head, and lowered his own voice so only the girl and Chengyun could hear.

“Every time you…” He waved his hands vaguely, trying to shake off the leftover energy. “Every time you remove a god, someone else has to answer their prayers.”

Her icy stare returned. Her right hand began crackling with energy. “People don’t need the gods. They need to be freed from them.”

Chengyun’s talons dug into Marcel’s arm. “She’s summoning Godslayer.”

“I can see,” Marcel snapped in a whisper, then returned his gaze to the girl. “We have to answer the prayers.”

She smirked. “People pray to you? The god of disappointing dates?” Godslayer lengthened from her hand.

Chengyun pointed a trembling talon at the girl. “Technically he’s the God of Awkward Courtships.”

Marcel glared at him. “You’re not helping.”

He faced the girl again. “People pray to me all the time. Think—letters, conversations, videos! Videos are huge now! All about hoping their date goes well, or wishing they’d never gone…”

He lifted his hands, palms open. “I have to answer those.”

“Not for long. Once I finish you two…” She raised her arm, foot shifting back into striking stance. “I’ll break the final seal. The gods will be dead. No prayers to answer.”

“The prayers must be answered!” Marcel pleaded. “I’m answering prayers about harvests! I don’t know anything about that. It’s always either not enough rain or too much rain. Whatever I do, it’s disappointing!”

Godslayer finished forming. “They won’t be disappointed for much longer.”

She swung. Marcel tripped over Chengyun as he leapt back. Air cracked and shattered where he’d been.

“Please, just listen!”

“No.” Her voice was iron.

Marcel’s foot brushed her ankle, and the hate surged into him like fire under his skin. The world splintered—neon bled through the marble hall as tiles dissolved into static. The jukebox warbled, twisting the sound into the low hum of fluorescent lights.

When the light cleared, Marcel slumped in a cramped karaoke room. The wallpaper peeled, damp and curling. The stench of gin and tonic hit him full force. Across from him, the girl sat in a booth, her face lit by the glow of an iPhone.

“I thought you liked singing,” Marcel said — except the words came out in Yuki’s voice.

“That’s my sister, idiot,” she snapped, her tone still carrying Rumi’s personality.

Both their heads snapped toward the door as it swung open. Chengyun appeared, wearing a black-and-white server uniform, carrying a rattling tray of drinks. The dragon smiled nervously. “Drinks?”

“NO!” both shouted.

Chengyun slunk away, carefully closing the door behind him.

Marcel sagged back into the booth. Something wet seeped into his shirt. His voice trembled. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

The girl set her iPhone beside a half-finished gin and tonic. Her jaw tightened. “Because you…” she spat, “you gods just watch us suffer. You never answer my prayers.”

Marcel opened his mouth.

She cut him off. “I’m not done talking.”

Red light filled the booth as Godslayer reformed in her hand, hissing with rage.

“My mother died. My sisters stopped speaking to me. I prayed—begged—that my father would come back for me.” Her voice cracked. “Nothing. No answer. Not once.”

“We can’t answer your prayers,” Marcel said softly.

“Oh? And why not?” She stood, towering over him.

“You’re…” Marcel pressed back into the cheap vinyl, trying to shrink into the seat. “You’re not mortal. You’re… half-god. We can’t answer the prayers of a half-god.”

Her eyes widened—first in confusion, then in fury.

“Half-god?” She flicked her hand. Godslayer extended with a violent crackle. The small table jumped as she stepped forward. “My father is probably dead. How disappointing.”

She raised Godslayer over him.

Marcel whispered, voice breaking. “I am.”

The girl hesitated, Godslayer trembled in her grip, its edge buzzing with barely-contained fury.

She spat the words, “Prove it.”

His hand trembled as he reached for her, unable to lift his eyes to meet hers.

Hate radiated from her skin, searing into him until the karaoke booth dissolved in a single snap. The glow of her iPhone flickered out, replaced by the flicker of oil lamps and the relentless downpour of Orléans’ streets.

“Orléans,” the girl muttered.

“I…” His words no longer shook with fear; they settled low and steady. “She prayed for you.” Marcel pointed to a woman huddled beneath an awning, clutching a crying baby. Tears streaked her soot-smudged face, and her shawl clung to her shoulders in the rain.

Godslayer swirled, ready to feed on Marcel. “She was alone. I was alone.”

“I, too, was alone,” Marcel whispered.

“You.” He looked at his daughter. “You weren’t. I was there, but I couldn’t stay.”

She stared at the woman, unflinching.

The rain passed through them. His shaking stopped.

His daughter turned to him, her eyes no longer burned. Godslayer dimmed, the blade shrinking back into her palm. “I was expecting… more.”

“I know. I’m… disappointing.” His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual humor. A strained smile flickered, then faded. “But I am here. Now.”